Through the Cracks
by xsilver-galaxyx
Summary: Every night he watches her and imagines what could have been.


_Written for oxoniensis PB VII. Prompt Angel, Wesley/Fred, glimpses_

_Warning: sexual content & slight voyeurism _

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When one thought about how many enemies Angel had, it didn't make sense he would use a large abandoned hotel as his base of operations, there were so many places a person could sneak in. But that suited Wesley perfectly. He knew every way to get into the Hyperion and every place to hide once he got in. He knew the best view of the lobby and the best way to see the main office. And sometimes at night he would punish himself by watching Angel sitting in his room, holding a toy of Connor's and staring blankly ahead.

But it was Fred he watched the most, even though her room was the hardest to see into and he only ever saw glimpses of her. Often she would be obscured by Gunn and he hated her for it. As Gunn's broad shoulders moved over her and she let out little sighs he wondered whether this was what had fucked everything up. That if Fred had chosen him, everyone would still be welcome in the Hyperion.

When she was alone though, he couldn't hate her. In the occasional thoughtless moment he would consider revealing himself and begging for her forgiveness, but those moments were brief. Mostly he would imagine what it would be like to be in her bed, in her arms. Would they make love gently or would passion, the overwhelming need for each other, take over?

He would imagine both, depending on Fred's mood when she entered the room.

When she returned from a fight, she couldn't get her clothes off fast enough, as though the evil would taint her if she let it seep through and touch her skin. Those would be the nights where it would be quick, an affirmation of survival. Instead of Fred rushing to undress herself, they would do it for each other, trying to maintain their connection through lips, tongues and skin. Sometimes he believed that they wouldn't even make it to the bed. That their desire to be close would mean that Fred's long legs would be wrapped around his waist and her back against the nearest wall. The adrenaline rushing through their veins meant they didn't need to wait and Wesley would plunge into Fred, pausing only to catch her eyes before they both started to move. There would be marks; a coupling this frantic couldn't not leave them. Every thrust would feel like he was going deeper, but it would never be enough until that moment where her violent release triggered his own.

Wesley could always tell when Fred had been downstairs researching, she would slowly enter the room and unhurriedly get ready for bed. These would be the nights for making love, showing her exactly what she meant to him. He would exit their bathroom to find her already in bed and would crawl in to spoon against her. Gently running his fingers along the underside of her breasts, he would plant kisses against her neck until she turned over to take him in her arms. Once he was above her, he would run his hands down the side of her body, following with kisses until he reached that secret spot between her legs, where he would make her come again and again. Only when she couldn't bare the emptiness inside her anymore would he even think about his own pleasure. She would reach down to kiss him, before grasping him firmly but gently in her small hand and guiding into her hot, tight passage. Their movements were always slow, making each moment together last as long as possible. On those nights, there would always be declarations of love as they came.

The night Fred's professor was killed, Wesley didn't go to the Hyperion. Being that close to her earlier in the day meant he couldn't bear to see her with Gunn, and he knew she would. But he still wondered what it would have been like if she had come back with him. He had no doubt that it would have been violent and that Fred would have been in complete control, as she proved to herself that she controlled her own life and wasn't going to let anyone push her around. He imagined her pushing him into the sofa, riding him with little care for his pleasure, only her own. How she would pull his hands to her breasts, forcing him to pinch her nipples until he thought he was going to make her bleed. And afterwards he would just hold her, as she let out all of her tears and frustration.

But these fantasies never brought him any physical pleasure, just the pain of knowing what was possible.


End file.
